this is a draft. i have the concept, but i’m still working on what i want this to be and where i want it to go.

two years now since i survived that bloody spring. i barely made it out of april alive. stumbling into a deep-red summer, my own guts were in my hand as my prize. oh, how i carved the final wound right into that broken, loveless chest. how the blood splattered my face in baptism while yours was hidden by that not-so-perfect mask. i saw through those cracks. i see them even now. every streaked-mirror-reflection is a reminder. every hand wash is a cleanse i can’t complete. i scrub myself raw, but can’t quite remove the traces. there are bodies i’ve not yet buried. there is guilt i don’t know how to name. how do i forgive myself for all the versions of me that i let die when i this is the one that out alive? how can i be the hero with this much blood on my hands? i may have delivered the final blow, but i felt it in my own chest a thousandfold. i am not a savior. i am only the final girl. and the story may be mine to tell, but that doesn’t mean anyone has to listen.